The New York Daily News got a little stalkerish and tracked down Rex Ryan and his wife on their vacation in the Bahamas. The key discovery: that Rex Ryan has a tattoo of his wife wearing a Mark Sanchez jersey on his bicep. Clearly this was the reason why he stuck with Sanchez for way, way too long. He didn’t want to change the jersey number on his tattoo. Or it could be because he didn’t have a clearly superior alternative at quarterback. Just kidding, it was definitely the tattoo.

On the coach’s right arm were two tats — one featuring a shamrock and the names of his wife and children, Payton and Seth; and one showing a sexy Michelle wearing a Sanchez uniform top and eying the viewer with bedroom eyes.

There’s not a Tim Tebow tat to be found.

Ryan cursed out a News reporter who approached the controversial coach.

“Oh, s—,” Ryan said, waving off the reporter and storming away with his wife.

Someone stop that coach! Tell him to get back here and explain his lack of Tim Tebow tattoos. Tom Rinaldi has two of them just on his dick.

Sanchez: But I feel good, man. I know a lot of people doubted me, but I helped the team on Saturday. Just gotta keep at it.

Jones: Yup.

Sanchez: Where’s Coach Ryan?

Jones: I dunno, but my water glass is shakin’, so he can’t be far.

Sanchez: Oh man, here he comes.

(door flies open)

Ryan: HOW THE FUCK YOU DOIN’, BOYS?

Sanchez: Good, coach.

Ryan: Let me tell you something, men. I feel fucking GREAT. Look out that window. PERFECT FUCKING DAY FOR GETTING READY TO KILLLLLLLLLLLL!

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Ryan: You know what I did this morning, Paunch? There was this raccoon going through our garbage. Big raccoon. Bigger than Dustin Keller. So I said to the raccoon, “Raccoon, you’d best clear the fuck out. THAT’S A REX RYAN GARBAGE CAN, AND YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK WITH A REX RYAN GARBAGE CAN.” Well, that raccoon stayed right there, not budging an inch. And you know what I did next? I shot him. With a shotgun. BLEW HIS FUCKING HEAD CLEAR OFF! He won’t be going through my old T-bones any time soon!

Sanchez: Yes. sir.

Ryan: Can you feel my intensity, Paunch! GOD DAMN, WE ARE FUCKING DEEP IN THESE PLAYOFFS LIKE A CHEERLEADER’S SNATCH! You see how I’m ready to killllllllll at all times?

Sanchez: I am, sir.

Ryan: You had a helluva fucking game last week, Paunch. I bet you got yourself a SHITLOAD of teenage pussy after that game, didn’t you? Didn’t you, boy?

Ryan: Paunch, from now on, your new name The Matador. CAUSE YOU TAMED THE PUSSYBULL!

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Ryan: And Braylon Edwards, your new nickname is Roy Williams! BECAUSE YOU FUCKING SUCK! Now, men. MEN. We have a big game on Sunday. BIG FUCKING GAME. We’re going to San Diego and we ain’t going to surf and cruise for tuna tacos. We are going there to fucking killlllll, and I brought someone in today to help get that message across to you.

Buddy Ryan: Back in my day, there wasn’t no spread offenses or any of that chuck and duck shit. You read me? Football wasn’t some queerass throwing game. Football was fucking WAR. You take on your man, you beat him, and you stomp on his bloody fucking corpse. That’s the football I was raised on, and that’s the kind of football I want you to play on Sunday.

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Buddy Ryan: I tell you to talk, boy? Son, who the fuck is that?

Ryan: That’s The Matador. He’s our QB.

Buddy Ryan: Quarterback? Yeah, he looks like a QB. Lock him in the icebox, will ya?

Ryan: That’s not legal anymore, Pop.

Buddy Ryan: Goddamn government fairies.

Ryan: Matador’s okay. HE’S A FUCKING KILLER! AREN’T YOU, MATADOR?!

Sanchez: Very much so.

Buddy Ryan: That boy is from Cali. I can smell the gay on his skin. Probably ain’t even killed a daisy. Now, I wanna teach you boys about how to properly gouge an eye. You listening? When you take one of those fucker’s eyes out, you do it WHEN THE OTHER MAN HAS LOWERED HIS HEAD. That way, you can get under there, and the refs can’t see it. Next order of business: breaking fingers. Always go for the pinky. If you’re lucky, the o-lineman across from you was too dumb to tape his pinky to his ring finger. You fucking pull that shit until you hear the pop. That way, you know you got him. You made your bounties yet? In Oklahoma, we don’t take the field without making our goddamn bounties.

Ryan: We sure have, Dad. Surf and Turf dinner to the first man to take a testicle away from that asshole Philip Rivers.

Buddy Ryan: Oh, good! I don’t like that boy. QB. Red ass. You take that fucker out, other team don’t stand a chance.

Marmalard: OOOH, I’M SO SCARED. “Loogit me, I’m Buddy Ryan and I punched Kevin Gilbride! THEN I GO HOME AND FUCK MY CATTLE!” You Ryans don’t scare KING LASERFACE! He is here to repel your bounties with the protection of the Almighty’s force field, granted to him through years and years of floaty abstinence! I’VE TURNED DOWN PUSSY THAT WOULD MAKE YOUR DICK POKE OUT OF ITS FATTY MOUSECAVE, ASSCUNT!

Marmalard: You’ll never get me to stop talking! You Ryans think you have a patent on talking big shit. LOOGIT US! WE’RE THE SUPER BOWL FAVORITES! WE’RE SO FEARSOME! Well, guess what, fuckshelf? YOU CAN’T COACH TALL. I HAVE MALCOLM FLOYD AND HE’S 6’23” AND HE WILL SLAP YOU ON THE TOP OF HIS HEAD WITH HIS MASSIVE BLACK COCKLARIAT. FUCKING BELIEVE IT! I’m taking a ferry to Revis Island, and I’m going to tame every Godless savage on it! Soon, they will be swathed in the long underwear of our Lord! I’LL SEE YOUR ASS ON SUNDAY! THE DAY OF OUR MARMALARD!

(door shuts)

Buddy Ryan: He don’t scare me.

Ryan: ARE YOU MEN GONNA TAKE THAT ASSHOLE’S SHIT LYING DOWN?

Everyone: No!

Ryan: Bring it in tighter, men.

(everyone brings it in tighter)

Ryan: Men, no one is picking us to win on Sunday. They think we’re happy just to have won one game. They think we’ve had our fun, and now it’s time to lay down and fucking die. They think the Chargers are taller, and faster and stronger than you. But there’s one thing those fuckers aren’t counting on: HATE. Men, this is a game of hate. You have to hate that man across from you. You have to want to fucking murder him. Because he’s the scum of the fucking Earth who deserved it. You need that hate to sit inside you. Seethe. Fester. Make you do ugly, horrible things you didn’t think you were capable of doing. You have to want to kill the man across from you. You have to shed your civilized urges and think only of evil, terrible things. BLOOD. GUTS. WAR. You have to become heartless psychopaths. ARE YOU FUCKING READY TO BECOME PSYCHOPATHS?!

Everyone: Yes!

Ryan: I am fucking psychopathic right now, men. If that fucking Marmalard walks in here again, I will fucking sit on his head until it squashes like a grape. I WILL SHOOT HIM LIKE A VARMINT GOING THROUGH MY GARBAGE. Then I’ll dance on his fucking skull. And that’s what I want out of you. I want DEATH. I want MAIMING. You men are fucking WINNERS. You are fucking MURDERERS. YOU ARE THE FUCKING PARTY OF WAR AND THOSE WHO SEE YOU COMING KNOW THERE IS NO LONGER NEITHER TIME NOR HOPE. I want you to ATTACK. To INFLICT. To HURT. I want you to fucking killllllllll!!! Are you fucking ready to kill?!

Mrs. Claus: Papa, why you so worried? Here. I make-a you-a nice SCUNGILLI. With the pepperoncini.

Santa: Oh, thanks mama!

Mrs. Claus: That’s-a my Santa!

Santa: Oh, I feel bad for all the little children out there tonight. This storm is the worst we’ve EVER faced! Even Rudolph’s nose isn’t bright enough to cut through this much snow and ice! I’m afraid… we may have to cancel Christmas.

Santa: Well, I just don’t know how we’re going to deliver all these presents in this kind of weather!

(knock on the door)

Voice: Open up! It’s not a fit night out for man nor beast! NOR ROBERTO HUMIDOR!

Santa: Well, who could that be? Mama, could you get the door?

Mrs. Claus: Of course. And I-a bring-a you-a some fresh SALTIMBOCCA.

(door flies open, smell of egg nog farts wafts in)

Ryan: HOW THE FUCK YOU DOIN’, SANTA?

Santa: Why, it’s coach Ryan of the Jets!

Ryan: Hey! I smell meatball subs! You got meatball subs in here, lady? I bet you do! I bet you do, you saucy little bitch!

Mrs. Claus: Ooh hoo hoo hoo! I make-a you a plate!

Ryan: No plates necessary! Just throw it and I’ll catch it all with my mouth! Santa, Mrs. C, lemme tell you something. I have had a HELL of a Christmas Eve. We had turkey for dinner, and when I sat down to relax afterwards, I must have farted at least thirty fucking times. BUT I SMOTHERED ALL OF THEM WITH MY TURKEY-STUFFED ASS! Then, when Rob fell asleep next to me, I finally got up and released them all at once! I CALL THAT THE OZONE. I’m my own dutch oven!

(chugs wassal)

Santa: Why, that sounds like great fun!

Mrs. Claus: Papa, how-a you gonna make-a you own dutch oven with such a little ass? Kids expect a Santa with a big ass!

Ryan: She’s right, Gift Boy! You need to get chompin’! Now, first order of business around here. NICKNAMES. Santa, I don’t really like your name. I don’t like the a at the end. Make you sounds like a twat. My half-Mexicali QB with a shit knee says any guy with an a on the end of his name, in his culture, is either a woman, or about to be made one! HOW ABOUT THAT NACHO? Now, from here on out, your name is THE BIG PEPPERMINT!

Santa: Okay.

Ryan: Mrs. Claus! From now on, your new name is FRA DIAVOLO. Because you’re Italian, and you’re spicy, and want you covering me!

Mrs. Claus: (blushes)

Ryan: God damn, you are one fine looking Eskimo wop lady. Hey Big Peppermint, you hit that pussy every night? Do you? DO YOU FUCKING KILLLL THAT PUSSY?

Santa: Well, I…

Ryan: OHHHHHHHH! Oh! Oh, ol’ Minty has a big ol’ toy to deliver down that pussychimney! That’s some good pussy right there, old timer. YOU RESPECT IT.

(whips out chewing tobacco)

Chaw, anyone? Chaw? No? Okay. Now! The reindeer! Lemme get a load of these little hunks of venison.

Santa: Oh well there’s Dasher, and Dancer…

Ryan: What the fuck? Dasher and Dancer? What is this, a fucking Broadway play? Do these reindeer fly and suck cock at the same time? BULLSHIT. From now on, these reindeer are getting new names! Except Blitzen! I like the cut of his jib! The rest of them will be named Fucker, Killer, Hacksaw, Pussyblaster, Cockfrost, Axeman, and Blitzen 2! You got those names right?

Santa: Well, I…

Ryan: Next order of business. MIDGETS! El Minto, I heard you got some midgets working here.

Hermey: I’m a dentist!

Ryan: You’re a cumswiller is what you are, boy. Listen Santa, these little midgets are adorable. I’ll give you that. But they sure don’t look motivated to me!

(sniffs own armpit)

Santa: Well, there’s this big snow tonight, and I just don’t know if we can get our sleigh off the ground!

Ryan: You called the right man, Mintburger.

Santa: I didn’t call you.

Ryan: NOT IMPORTANT! Now, all of you listen to me. Peppermint. Deer. Midgets. Fra Diavolo spicepussy. I want all of you to gather round right now.

(everyone gathers)

Ryan: You think a little snow ever got in the way of a Rex Ryan team? You think my Jets would ever pussy out on a game because of Jesus’ confetti?

Everyone: No.

Ryan: Goddamn right, they wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let them. And I’m not gonna let you. People, there are two kinds of people in the world. People who say, “I can’t,” and fucking WINNERS. And midgets, but that’s neither here nor there. When I look around this room, I don’t see a bunch of crying pussies. I don’t see a group of people who are ready to give up before they even bother trying. That’s not what life is about. It’s not about quitting before you even start. You try, and go like Hell, and if you come up short, well fuck it. That’s the way it goes sometimes. WINNERS ARE NEVER FUCKING AFRAID TO FAIL. I don’t go by this REFUSE TO LOSE bullshit. You’re gonna lose sometimes. You’re gonna get your heart broken. BUT WINNERS ALWAYS FUCKING GO FOR IT ANYWAY. IN RAIN. SLEET. SNOW. HAIL. FROGS. WHATEVER. THEY ATTACK! THEY FUCKING KILLLLLLLLLLL!!!! ARE YOU FUCKERS READY TO FUCKING KILL?

Everyone: Yes.

Ryan: ARE YOU GONNA RIP A NEW CUNT IN THAT SNOWSTORM AND PLOW RIGHT THROUGH IT?

Everyone: Yes.

Ryan: SAY IT LIKE YOU FUCKING MEAN IT!

Everyone: YES!

Ryan: You are going to go out there, and you are going to fucking FLY. You are going to get this sleigh off the ground, and we are going to fucking ROCK THIS FUCKING CHRISTMAS. Then we’re all gonna go out for Abominable Snow Monster steaks and brandy! AND WE’RE GONNA FUCK SOME YETI TANG! And make gingerbread women and eat only their crotches! AND WE’RE GONNA TRIM THE TREE WITH HUMAN EARS! You fucking ready to do this?

Ryan: Hell yes I did! I FUCKED MY WIFE! FUCKED HER CRAZY! You boys ain’t the only ones who get to have all the fun! I grabbed her hair and made her call me Daddy all night long! She was making Africa sounds by the time I was finished! Nothing like waking up the day after you laid wood to the missus. What about you? You boys clean up that pussy while you had your little week off? Well, did you?

Sanchez: Well, I…

Ryan: OHHHHHHHH, you did! Jalapeno, your new nickname is POON TANGO! That’s Espanolish for sloppy pussy! Now, men. MEN. We got business to tend to. First order of business for the day: THE BOOM BOX. Now, I know some of you like rock, and some of you like country, and some of you like that rap shit. BUT EVERYONE LIKES NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN. That’s why I put that symphony in the CD player and glued it shut. BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU WANT TO KILLLLLLLLLL! It makes me feel like a fucking DEMON. A giant, murderous, pussy-stomping DEMON! Are you a demon, POON TANGO?

Sanchez: Yes, sir.

Ryan: Good! Next order of business: the Jaguars. We got those assholes from Gainesville coming in this week.

Sanchez: Jacksonville.

Ryan: Whatever. It’s all shithead country, if you ask me. Men, I don’t think your minds were clear two weeks ago. I don’t think you had your heart and soul in the game. I DIDN’T SEE YOUR KILLER EYES! DO YOU HAVE KILLER DEMON EYES, POON TANGO? LOOK AT ME LIKE A KILLER!

Sanchez: How’s this?

(furrows brow)

Ryan: Son, you look like you’re squeezing out a gravel shit. Men, when you play for a Rex Ryan team, you don’t hold back. You understand me? YOU ARE ANIMALS. YOU ARE WILD FUCKING ANIMALS THAT HAVE BEEN OUT IN THE DESERT FOR WEEKS, AND ARE STARVED FOR BLOOD. Louie, bring in the jaguar!

Sanchez: Holy shit!

Ryan: Did you know jaguars kill different than any other animal? It’s true. Let me read this to make sure I got it right: “It bites directly through the skull of prey between the ears to deliver a fatal bite to the brain.” Now, how do you like that? Look in his eyes, men. What do you see? I SEE A KILLER. You wanna beat a jaguar? YOU BETTER BE READY TO SKULLCHOMP THAT FUCKER RIGHT BACK. YOU BETTER BE READY TO BE A FUCKING PREDATOR.

(takes out knife, Ho Ho)

Ryan: Okay, Poon Tango. Take the knife.

Sanchez: What?

Ryan: You wanted to be a MAN in this league, right? You wanted to be King of the Mountain? You take this knife.

Sanchez: What am I gonna do with it?

Ryan: I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do with it. You’re gonna bring me ITS BALLS.

Sanchez: WHAT?

Ryan: You can handle a football? You can handle a KNIFE. You take that cat’s balls and you bring them to me.

Sanchez: But I can’t possibly…

Ryan: HE’D DO THE SAME TO YOU IF HE HAD A PAWKNIFE OF SOME SORT. He wouldn’t hesitate. Not for a second. Men, I know what we do out on that field is unnatural. I know you’ve been told all your life to be nice to people and not to hurt them. But that’s not really who you are. You wanna be a killer? You’re gonna have to have the sack to shed your civility and BE THE FUCKING KILLERS YOU REALLY ARE. NOW, DO IT! CASTRATE THAT FUCKER, JACKIE SHERRILL STYLE! BRING ME HIS BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS!

(smears war paint on Sanchez’s face)

Everyone: BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS!

Sanchez: I can’t.

Ryan: THE ZOO NEEDS THIS DONE ANYWAY! NOW BECOME THE ANIMAL! KILLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!

Sanchez: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

(cuts jaguar’s balls off)

Sanchez: HOLY SHIT, I DID IT!

Ryan: HOLY SHIT, HE DID IT!

Jones: HOLY SHIT, HE DID IT!

Everyone: HOLY SHIT! HE DID IT!

Ryan: Poon Tango, you ain’t no rookie no more. You are now a fucking LEADER OF MEN. Men, this is exactly how we’re gonna play on Sunday. When you go out on to that field, I don’t want you to be human. I don’t even want you to remember how to fucking TALK. I want you to be a FUCKING ANIMAL, AND AN ANIMAL FUCKING. The same way Poon Tango here was when he lopped off Chester’s nutsack. The same way I was when I banged the shit out of Mrs. Ryan last night. That’s what it takes. That’s how you get to the top. You don’t ask. YOU RUTHLESSLY FUCKING CLAW FOR GLORY. YOU ATTACK. ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK KILLLLLL!!!

(everyone cheers)

Men, you are fucking WINNERS. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Poon Tango here didn’t think he could cut off a jaguar’s balls, but he did! He was a winner, and he didn’t even know it. Now, it’s your turn. You’re going to go out there, and you are going to lose control, and you will become DEMON FUCKING ANIMAL KILLERS. Are you ready? ARE YOU FUCKING READY TO KILL?! ARE YOU READY TO DELIVER A FATAL BITE TO DAVID GARRARD’S SKULL?!

Everyone: YES!

Ryan: LEMME HEAR YOU ROAR! RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Everyone: RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Ryan: Are we gonna win?

Everyone: YES.

Ryan: Are we gonna kill?

Everyone: YES.

Ryan: Are we gonna cut those fuckers’ balls off?

Everyone: YES.

Ryan: GODDAMN RIGHT WE ARE. WE WILL KILL, AND WE WILL WIN, AND THEN WE’RE ALL GOING OUT FOR CHICKEN AND HOOKERS! Fucking bring it in!